


Atmosphere (Five Times Dean Doesn't Kiss Sam)

by nixwilliams



Series: Five Times (Supernatural) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-03
Updated: 2006-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24539245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nixwilliams/pseuds/nixwilliams
Summary: Sam shifts against the car, shuffles the bag over his shoulder and watches the bus door swing open. “This is me,” he says, and doesn’t look at Dean. Dean nods, doesn’t look back. They sit like that for a moment, then Sam’s up and walking, and Dean feels like he’s fallen into a goddamn dream. One where he can’t move, even though the demon’s a step away, even though all he has to do is raise the gun and pull the trigger. Sam’s back and shoulders and legs are stuck in his eyes, and he thinksI should have bought him a Coke for the trip.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Five Times (Supernatural) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773520
Kudos: 4





	Atmosphere (Five Times Dean Doesn't Kiss Sam)

**1\. Breath**  
  
There’s so much blood, too much fucking blood, and he doesn’t know where it’s coming from because, because, because, shit, it’s all over Sammy’s face and arms and his legs are twisted up on the floor and he’s too fucking still. Dean’s eyes and feet and brain are skidding around, slowed down to five frames a second, deprived of oxygen, and his ears are sliding through a breathless voice that runs loops of _Oh God, oh God, oh God_. His hands skim and skip over Sammy’s head and chest, not touching, not knowing, not _knowing_ , and the loop plays faster and higher and changes to _Sammy, Sammy, Sammy_. Dean’s forehead is bent to his brother’s in a desperate imitation of prayer, or maybe genuine supplication, and he presses his nose to Sammy’s nose, his cheek to Sammy’s cheek, his hand to Sammy’s jaw and almost turns his mouth to his brother’s to _kiss him like some stupid girl_.  
  
And Dean can breathe again. The night-cold air rushes around him, bites his face, clears his mind, calms his hands. He _knows_ what to do. Airways? Check. Breathing? Check. Circulation?  
  
There’s rhythm to this, a physical memory like rosary beads, like sharpening knives, that takes control and won’t let him think it’s Sammy he’s working on, won’t let him consider the what-if in his actions. It makes his voice steady when he says, “OK, Sammy, you’ll be OK.”  
  
Makes it demanding and rightful when he yells, “Dad! Dad, get in here!”  
  
  
**2\. Smoke**  
  
He doesn’t know how it happened – or more specifically, how it happened without him – but Sam’s stoned. Absolutely wasted, lying on the floor in front of the TV, giggling like a lunatic then going quiet and trying to raise his eyebrows and telling Dean that _things_ are out there and they’re gonna _get him_.  
  
Dean’s lying across the armchair, watching TV and not listening, because yeah, he’s pissed off.  
  
For starters, whoever gave Sam this shit is gonna have a nice long introduction to Dean’s fists. If Sam wants to get stoned then he can fucking get stoned, but not on anything Dean hasn’t tried first. There are some weird fuckers out there who mess with their crops, put shit on the weed that makes people go wrong. He’s been through this with the dealers in all three bars in this shithole town, and whichever the hell one of them went ahead and sold to his kid brother is going to fucking get it.  
  
He swings one leg off the big armchair and prods Sam with his foot. Sam jumps quite impressively for someone lying on his back, and pulls Dean’s sock off. “I got it, Dean, I _got_ your _sock_!”  
  
Second, Sammy was out there _by himself_. Dean got as much from his brother in between the hysteria and the paranoia. Out in the dark without a weapon on his body. Without a fucking _coat_. Jesus, he was like an ice cube when he’d fallen through the door and Dean had to turn the heater up to 4. _By himself_ , like he couldn’t have gone to someone’s house, or even fucking asked Dean to join him. Out alone in a county crawling with weird disappearances and nasty inbred locals.  
  
“Dean. Dean, Dean-ie,” Sam giggles and sings, swinging Dean’s sock and looking like he’s trying to sink into the carpet, or float to the ceiling. “I’m a sleepyeye, a sleepy eyeball, I’m, sleepy. Dean, Dean-ie!”  
  
And Dean could’ve really gone with a smoke tonight. Could have gone with the thick tug of fog in his chest, opening up his belly, tickling his eyes. Probably would have enjoyed sitting together, propped against a wall somewhere, passing it from his fingers to Sam’s, watching headlights blur and balloon down the street. But instead the little shit went off by himself, and didn’t even share.  
  
“Um, Dean?” Sam says, using his serious voice.  
  
“What.”  
  
Sam goes from flat to sitting in less than a second, without using his arms, and Dean swears he can _hear_ his brother’s abs working. “You pi-issed with me?” Sam’s voice hasn’t done that since it broke.  
  
“Yes.” It’s not entirely true. Watching a wasted Sam has its good points, but it’s the principle of the matter.  
  
Sam rolls closer to the chair, and asks, “Why?” Dean just snorts at that, because it’s pretty damn obvious why. Sam stands on his knees and leans over Dean’s face, eyes anxious. “Don’t be angry. With me. Dean.” Dean scowls at the TV and says nothing, waits for Sam’s inevitable apology. Instead, Sam grabs Dean’s arm and blows a raspberry on his bicep. “Don’t be angry.” Dean screws his face up in an effort not to laugh. Sam takes a noisy breath and fixes his eyes on Dean’s arm, readying himself for a repeat performance.  
  
“I don’t think so,” mutters Dean, and tackles him to the floor.  
  
Sam starts giggling again, hands fluttering where Dean has his wrists pinned against the carpet, eyes half-crossed, and mouth all messy and tangled. “Specka meen mornen?” he squeaks.  
  
Dean leans down and shakes his head. “Have no idea what you’re saying, Sammy.”  
  
“I _said_ , will you res _pect_ me in the _morning_ ,” Sam enunciates with a loopy smile.  
  
Dean smirks, then, because this? This is gold. This is ammo for months of teasing. “Oh, Sammy,” he sighs. “Sammy, Sammy, _Sammy_. Of course I’ll respect you in the morning. And you know what, honey, why don’t you suck me off, now, huh?” Dean wriggles his hips a bit, feels the grin splitting his face as he stares down at his brother.  
  
Sam’s eyes are sliding over Dean’s mouth with a classic _I’m stoned and concentrating extremely hard on this important thing_ expression. “Suck you?” he mumbles stupidly, and Dean just about wets himself trying not to laugh. “Off?” It takes Sam a while, but Dean can pinpoint the moment he gets it. His nose squeezes up, his eyebrows go down. Dean expects to get shoved off with a slap or a punch, but instead he feels Sam go limp underneath him, and watches Sam’s face go all soft and, yeah, kinda sad. “Don’t pick on me,” he whispers.  
  
Dean hangs there for a second, feeling the left-over bits of his grin melt off his face, and Sam just stares up at him with stupid, dark eyes. And it bothers Dean that he doesn’t know what he said to give Sam that hurt look, and he doesn’t know what to do to make it go away. He lets Sam’s wrists go and slides off to sit on the floor. “You’re a freak when you’re stoned, you know?” he says, and goes back to watching TV.  
  
  
**3\. Dust**  
  
They’re leaning on the hood, boots in the dust of some middle of nowhere bus stop. “Will you,” he starts, then revises it to, “You’ll call.” Wonders if Sam hears _Don’t call_ in the first part, or _It’s an order_ in the second. The last two days have been like this, not knowing what to say that won’t set Sam off.  
  
Sam’s eyes gaze at something beyond the dirt beside the road. His lips twitch slightly (not deliberate, not a smile) and he nods. Dean can’t tell if that nod means _I’ll call_ , or _Yeah, right_. And if _I’ll call_ means Sam will dial Dean’s cell in the middle of the night when he hopes it’s off and not leave a message.  
  
“Good.” He doesn’t know what else to say, so they sit there in silence, in the eye of this godforsaken tumbleweed landscape, until the bus grumbles up the road and pulls into the parking spot.  
  
Sam shifts against the car, shuffles the bag over his shoulder and watches the bus door swing open. “This is me,” he says, and doesn’t look at Dean. Dean nods, doesn’t look back. They sit like that for a moment, then Sam’s up and walking, and Dean feels like he’s fallen into a goddamn dream. One where he can’t move, even though the demon’s a step away, even though all he has to do is raise the gun and pull the trigger. Sam’s back and shoulders and legs are stuck in his eyes, and he thinks _I should have bought him a Coke for the trip_.  
  
Sam pauses for half a second with his foot on the bottom step of the bus and there’s something that comes out of nowhere, gets inside Dean and stabs through him like a fucking kitchen knife. His fingers dig so hard into the metal of the hood he can almost feel it dinting, and he realises that he can’t do this. He can’t watch Sam leave.  
  
Dean stumbles to the driver’s side and falls into the seat. Turns the key hard in the ignition, and pulls out before he has a chance to think. Before he has the chance to grab Sam off that fucking bus and use up every last possibility to make him stay. Talk. Fight. Scream. Beg. Fucking _hug_ or _kiss_ or whatever the hell it takes.  
  
Dean slams his fist on the steering wheel, his foot to the floor, and breaks the speed limit.  
  
  
**4\. Sky**  
  
The window is down and the music’s playing quieter than usual. Sam’s sleeping with his head against the window and his stupidly long legs bent up like a human spider. They slide past a sign pointing right, announcing a lookout at the top of the ridge, and Dean slows down, turns off the road. It’s getting late in the afternoon, the sun riding low over the hills, and what they _should_ be doing is finding the closest motel. But there’s something relaxed and almost warm in the breeze, the smell of trees and nearby farms, and Dean thinks he might like to sit still for a while.  
  
He brakes, and they roll to a gentle stop, the comfortable curls and waves of countryside spread out around them. The motor idles and the music fills out the car with familiar ease. Off to the east, under a light ribbon of cloud, Dean can see the town they’re heading for, and the strip of road that’ll take them there.  
  
_You and me._  
  
He rolls Sam’s words around in his mind like those crazy chiming meditation balls, trying not to force them, and hums along with the tune, smiling at the sky. When the song finishes Dean looks over at his brother, gold skinned in the afternoon sun, eyelashes tracing threads of shadow across his cheeks, and it feels like a lifetime since he saw Sam’s face.  
  
For a dreamy moment Dean wonders if he could slide over next to him, curve an arm around his shoulders and go to sleep with their heads resting together like they did when they were kids. And maybe, when they woke up, Dean could kiss Sam’s nose and push the hair out of Sam’s eyes and make him pancakes for breakfast. There would be sunshine and the morning papers home delivered, and kids on bikes outside the window, and all the _normal_ Sam could stand. And if Dean wasn’t a perfect wife, if he couldn’t be everything Sam so fundamentally wanted, then at least he could be _enough_.  
  
Dean feels his mouth twist in a silly little smirk at that, and he lets one hand slip off the wheel to give Sam’s leg a wake-up nudge.  
  
“Mmrph,” Sam grunts, twisting and stretching awkwardly against the seat, the roof, the dash. Dean wonders if there’s enough room for his brother in any car ever made. “What’re you doing?”  
  
Dean flicks his eyes from Sam’s face to the landscape below them, leaning forward on the steering wheel. “Admiring the view,” he says, and grins.  
  
  
**5\. Air**  
  
The blinds are closed, and the room is dim. There’s a cold stripe of neon across Sam’s bed, but no Sam. Dean steps around the half open door, ignoring the familiar hitch inside that means _missing brother_. Feet soft on the tiles, he slips past the curtain, around the bed, careful not to disturb the fabric.  
  
He finds Sam on the floor in the corner, body twisted into a pretzel around a plasticmetal hospital chair. Legs hitting legs, one hand gripping the back, arm wrapped over his head, face mashed sideways into the seat. And he, he’s, it’s not something Dean can put words to. It’s something like crying, only without tears; like shaking, only Sam’s wound so tight around the chair he can’t move or he’ll break. Like screaming, only silent.  
  
Dean’s fingers twitch with a vague notion of _uncomfortable, is this spying, awkward_ , and twitch again with the need for _Sammy, OK, I’m here_. The big toe on his right foot curls over the next, and they wrap under. “Sam.”  
  
He thinks for a moment Sam hears, because he breathes in – an ugly, grating gasp that Dean can feel tearing through him – and makes a shape with his mouth that looks like _Dean_.  
  
“It’ll be OK, Sammy.”  
  
Sam’s face twists in on itself, his arm jerks, and Dean’s kneeling beside him before he can register the blood and snot sliding from Sam’s nose. “Sam. _Sam_ , c’mon.” Dean has a hand half way to Sam’s shoulder, then changes his mind. _Listen to me, listen, it’ll be OK_. “Come on.”  
  
Sam doesn’t listen, because he’s an obstinate fuck. Instead, his hand slides down, fingers clawing over his eyes into the hair at his temple. He grabs a fistful and starts ripping, eyelids clenched tight, nose oozing, and still completely silent.  
  
Dean knows already he can’t grab Sam’s hands, but he thinks – if he goes slowly – he might be able feel the surface with his fingers, like the skin of a bubble. If he goes too quickly, it will pop. So. Slowly, _slowly_ , he reaches out to the fist in Sam’s hair, thinking only of the way he _will make_ Sam’s fingers stop gripping so hard, he _will stop_ Sam hurting himself. Focuses on the way Sam’s skin _will_ feel, how it _will_ be dry, and the scabs on his knuckles _will_ be raised and rough. Closer. Three millimetres. Two. Dean concentrates on the warmth he _can_ feel under his fingers. One millimetre; and he _can_ make this work; and moment of truth.  
  
The flash of alarm and hope on Sammy’s face is comical, and Dean snorts. Sam’s fingers spring out of his hair, clutching in Dean’s direction, and his face focuses, almost seeing. The moment is over, Dean knows, Sam won’t be able to touch him. But this close, Dean can smell the bruises under Sam’s skin.  
  
“Dean.” His voice is hardly there, stretching thin across the room, dissolving. It’s not a question or a declaration or a plea. And it’s just like Sam to invent a new category of speech. “Dean.”  
  
This close, Dean can hear Sam blinking.  
  
_His forehead touching Sam’s forehead, his nose alongside Sam’s nose, his cheek pressed to Sam’s_. Dean has this physical memory, imprinted on his skin. Three millimetres. Two.  
  
Sam turns the last tiny distance, and Dean can taste the salt and the copper in his breath. “You here?” Dean feels the whisper slide through his body, though his mouth, through his head. Literally.  
  
“No.”  
  
Sam’s eyes flicker around the middle distance, waiting for something to snag them, waiting for Dean to appear. Dean knows it’s not gonna happen, and he knows that Sam knows, too. But at least Sam’s stopped trying to scalp himself. Dean backs up, out of Sam’s space, and sits on the bed. The covers don’t wrinkle under him, the hinges don’t squeak. Beside Dean’s hand, the strip of light stays fallen, straight, still.  
  
Eventually Sam gives up, rubs the congealing blood and mucus off his face with the front of his shirt, and heads for the bathroom. Dean swivels on the bed, eyes stamped with Sam’s silhouette, and considers following. Only for a minute, though, because his fingers are itching with _Try again_ , and Dean doesn’t want to _know_ if it doesn’t work second time.  
  
Doesn't know what he'll do if it does.

**Author's Note:**

> Re-post from DW. I started this before seeing 2.01, and had a couple of very different futurefic sections at the end, but 2.01 was so good I had to change it. Technically, I don’t think there’s an actual window for #5 to happen in canon, but hey, this is ficworld, so we can bend the rules a bit. The segments work as chronological, same ‘verse fics, with the first around the time Dean’s 16, the second when he’s 19. Thanks to DB and sajee for input!


End file.
